Pillars
by deshi basara
Summary: Following the destructive Battle of Azanulbizar, Thorin is offered the chance to strengthen his alliance with the Lord of the Iron Hills through an arranged marriage. AU, follows the events of the movie. Thorin/OC


_Prologue_

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Long ago had the dwarves of Erebor prospered. Generations of miners, masons, blacksmiths and jewelers had passed their time laboring in those halls of stone, carving out of the belly of the mountain a life for themselves and their children after them. Those centuries of peace passed slowly, quietly, without war or fear or famine. Prosperity bloomed from foundations of hard work and unmatched skill, and their riches had become so vast that men far to the north began to hear of it. A city steadily amassed at the foot of the great peak, nestled deep into the folds of the shadowed valley below – the City of Dale, peopled with the descendants of Northmen.

They still toiled long and arduously, though many of those who had survived the Great Exile grew melancholy in the work they once took pride and joy in. Homesick for the Lonely Mountain far to the north, at first they longed to return to it. No longer did men travel from great distances and kingdoms of foreign lands to have their sons learn from their blacksmiths and metalworkers. The once great kingdom of Erebor was lost, and their people with it.

But the years had softened the scars of their loss. Soon, thoughts of home came less painful and less often. They began to feast and sing and drink again after the long work hours, at the close of day. Trade with the hobbits of the Far Downs offered them good food and fair cloth, and steadily they built for themselves a life of comfort once more. It was not a rich comfort, made of opulence and silk and mountains of gold; common as it was, they found contentment in what they had salvaged from the ruins of their old life. Gratefulness replaced sorrow, and before long, they did not think much of Erebor at all – for Ered Luin became their home, and Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, the worthy King-in-Exile.

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There was only silence in the wake of victory.

Bodies covered the face of the earth, and the base of the mountain where the hills once sloped soft and green now ran scarlet with blood. Survivors wandered long over the battlegrounds, searching the pale faces of dead for the familiarity of kin. They had defeated the foul enemy of Moria, but it was a feat made hollow by grief. So many lost, among them Thror, King Under the Mountain, and his son. Thorin stood towering over them, his hard face grim even in the softness of sunlight. In his hand, a piece of splintered oak still drooped at his side. All of them, even Dain of the Iron Hills, knew that defeat would have been theirs if not for the prince's rally.

Armor shone silver bright and shields loosened from arms as the few who remained murmured their last farewells into deafened ears. Some began to find brothers, loved ones, and friends who now lay pale and quiet in their shallow graves. Dwalin happened upon the head of the late king by chance, discovering the remnants of his body nearby. His would be the only pyre to burn that night.

Even as dusk came and shadows began to gather beneath the eyes of the stars, the fells of Moria echoed with lamentation and grief.

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His tent was the only place of peace in the entire camp. It was his fortress, a tower of burlap and rope, and behind its walls he was safe from the sickness of grief that plagued the others. He could hear the wind moving through the grasses, water falling over rocks in the river nearby – the din of calm and quiet that he had not heard since before the battle. As any dwarf, he much preferred the clamor of mallets shaping metal, of axes wheedling stone, as these were the sounds of sanctuary. Home was to the north of this land, desolate now that its people had gone.

He could almost hear Dis' scalding retort even now, as clear as if she were there at his side. _This is home now, a home you have made for us. Erebor is a fond memory and nothing more._

"My lord?" A small voice slipped through the thick panels of cloth. "Lord Dain requests an audience with you."

Standing from his cot, he straightened the coat of mithril gleaming silver-blue beneath his tunic. As dirty and battle-scuffed as he was, he would remain presentable in front of his men much as he always had. "Send him in."

The flap of the tent opened and Dain Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, came sauntering in. He was a proud figure of nobility, fair of hair and stout of form like his father before him. In the usual fashion, his long beard had been woven into patterns of intricate plaits held together with golden clasps. Still dressed in his battle armor, his gait was short and heavy, but nonetheless he bore himself with the strength of a seasoned warrior. He gave a low, sweeping bow to Thorin no sooner had the flap closed behind him.

"Thorin, son of Thrain." The ghost of a smile hid in the corner of Dain's bearded lips. "_King_ Under the Mountain."

"I am no King yet," Thorin replied. "Not while my father still lives."

"Alive? Dead? What do we know of his fate?" Dain held out his helmet for his attendant to take, shaking his head as he spoke. "We've searched the lower hills, the river banks, the flatlands to the east. Scouts have been sent further out, but we all fear the worst of it."

Thorin faced his cot, arms crossed and shoulders bent. He had seen his father, driven mad with grief at the sight of his own father's death at the hands of the enemy. In that moment, he had been afraid, torn between honor and the urge to run for the hills – and only the hope of vengeance had staid him.

"Thorin," said Dain. "Now that you are set to inherit - perhaps, you should consider... "

"I have already given my answer to your offer…" Thorin interrupted gruffly. "I will not be swayed."

Dain held up his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "This will not be an easy road. I can assure you at least of that. There are duties that you must fulfill and sacrifices you must make for the good of your people. Your grandfather is dead. Your father - we know nothing of where he's gone." For a long, cruel moment, Dain is silent, as if shaping his thoughts into some semblance of sense. These are uncertain times, and one must be careful...the line of Durin is fading out of existence. Take care, young prince, that you do not let it disappear altogether."

Thorin reflected on this, and found there was a grain of truth to Dain's wisdom. Pride was always a matter of utmost importance to him – especially when it came to his duties as prince of the realm. Appearance and bearing, up to this point, had been the extent of his obligations to the throne. Outside of training and smithing, he had thought little of the responsibilities he would inherit as King Under the Mountain, but now, he wished he had dwelled a little more on them.

His father had never mentioned to him the possibility of having to marry. Perhaps, if he had known what was to transpire this day, Thrain would have discussed in detail why his son would have to choose a wife. It was too late now.

Thorin gazed emptily at the maps spread out before him on his cot. "Why..." He spoke haltingly. "What will you gain if I marry one of your clan?"

"A powerful ally."

"We are already allies," said Thorin crossly.

"But are we?" said Dain. "Tell me, when do you remember the dwarves of the Iron Hills coming to your aid? Can you think of one battle in your lifetime? One cry for help that did not fall on deaf ears?"

When Thorin does not answer, the Lord of the Iron Hills gives a winning smile. "Come now, cousin, it is not so terrible as it may seem. Think of your people, and the security they will have in knowing they have strong, capable allies. Think of them, of their safety, and you will see it my way in time..."

An arranged marriage – there was nothing in the world more terrifying. He would rather face battle after battle, defeat after defeat, and bear the shame of surrendering to the worst of his enemies than to be eternally bound to a woman he had never even set eyes on. A shudder coursed beneath his skin at the thought, turning the blood in his veins to ice. Once he accepted Dain's offer, there was no hope of retracting it. His word, once spoken, would be final.

At last, after several long moments of wordless rumination, Thorin uncrossed his arms and turned. "If it will help my people and my kingdom…" He said, offering his hand. "Then I accept your offer."

They shook thrice - the deal was struck.

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End file.
